There’s nothing like a little bit of L. Cohen to get a writer in the mood for the weekend…
Andshelaughs would like a fireman for Christmas…
Yah, I hope I find a buff-eager fireman under my tree this year, but what can I say, I’m a dreamer.
Last night I said good-bye to some very dear friends, and big, ole’ tough me cried myself to sleep. I felt so homesick for them, I just rolled out of bed now. The laundry can wait. I’m busy moping.
So, I finally get out of bed this morning, pour a good dose of Jimmy Buffet into the speakers and turn the coffee pot on, all the while dressed in a t-shirt and a bracelet. Don’t try to picture it, you’ll hurt your eyes.
My hair is long now because I’m trying to grow it long enough to pull back in a practical something or other while on the sailboat this winter. That means instead of being short and wild, it’s long and wild. What remains of my mascara after scrubbing my face last night has made itself more comfortable in the hollows of the bags of my eyes, and somehow I’ve managed one sock.
It’s morning. My daily nemesis. Describing me as, ‘Not a morning person’ is like saying the Dali Lama is sorta spiritual. I suck at mornings. More importantly, I’m ok with it.
I’ve turned on the coffee pot, yawned, and have a copy of the New Yorker in my hand featuring a story about bull-riding. I love bull-riding. And boxing. Those sports fascinate me. So, Ms. bawling mess homesick for her friends is in the kitchen looking, well, homeless, and reading about bull-riding when the fire alarm goes off. Not my smoke alarm, the one wired into the 12 units of homes that I live in.
Immediately, I shriek, “Oh Golly!”. Ok, I do not shriek, “Oh Golly”, but if I’m ever going to be ‘Freshly Pressed’ on WordPress I have to stop using the f-word. So, use your imagination. I say, “Oh…..k!”
I don’t panic because first of all, it’s before noon and I just don’t panic before noon. That’s way too much effort. I already know what’s happening. It’s fire alarm testing day.
Whenever I am home on a Friday it’s freaking-fire-alarm-testing day. I know that within moments, my Christmas wish is going to be almost true. There will be firemen in my house.
You have never seen a chubby middle-aged blonde woman move so quickly!
…and that’s how it happened Santa, honestly.
More precisely, I’m always ready for a day off.
More recently, with my new gig, weekends are a day, or day and a half long at best, but I make the most of them.
So, today as you head out, if you’re looking forward to a couple of days off, or maybe just one, be sure you set aside some time for something that makes your spirit come alive.
If it’s art, writing, music, dance….do that. And don’t feel guilty about taking the time for yourself.
If it’s special time with someone whom you have a deep connection with, go see them. Set a breakfast date, take a sandwich and bottle of wine to the park, and catch up.
Whatever you choose to do, savour every moment.
When you’re getting up Monday morning, recall how you feel in your moments of greatest joy, and live in that feeling the rest of the week.
Wishing you a fabulous Friday my tart little rhubarb crisps. Don’t be afraid to shine.
A girl has to let her hair down once in a while, or at least fluff it up to make her hard-working, professional self feel special, in that pink-is-my-favourite-colour-and-I-blush-at-curse-words kind of way.
Tonight I had the very good fortune of spending a few hours with my highly intelligent, bourbon-drinking, fellow writer and observer of life. We, as writers do, sat back and sipped our libations, observing other guests at the bar and making educated guesses about their relationships, sexual prowess, and professional pursuits.
I could tell you dear readers, about the gentleman whom I boldly approached at the end of the evening. Placing my palm on his back, I could feel the soft fabric of his cashmere shirt ( I had incorrectly thought it jersey knit from a distance), and the hard, solid body underneath.
I could tell you that my scotch-pal was a man of very little faith, and even hinted that my mischief mind insight a rather masculine ass-kicking.
I could also tell you that when I did approach the mystery man at the bar, his eyes met mine, and were the same shade of light blue. I could tell you that he had thin lips and a rather masculine frame.
With my hand on his back, and my friend looking on, I whispered in this stranger’s ear, ” I couldn’t help but notice you. I find you very intriguing.” To which his balding head turned, and his smile spread across his beer dampened lips. ” Was that your wife you were with earlier.”
He gave me a sly, I-know-how-to-pick-up-chicks-and-get-laid smile of confidence. “No,” he answered, “just a friend.”
“So that wasn’t your girlfriend,” I asked, hand still on his back, our eyes locked in half-inebriated-Friday-night-hunger.
I slipped a note with my fake name and fake number written on it, ” Call me tomorrow,” I said.
He turned to face me full-on, placed his hand on my arm, “But where are you going now Teri?”
I slipped from his touch and jabbered something about going somewhere else, and escaped the bar with my scotch drinking pal in hot pursuit.
Silly, I know. Pointless games and surmising? Yes. Immature? Perhaps. Memorable? Quite likely.
But isn’t that what life’s about my darlings? Just a little bit? Even if you’re all grown up with responsibilities and a serious career?
If you answered no, you are in need of serious inspiration to keep you young at heart.
At home, in the quiet of the midnight hour, I offer you these questions to ponder as whatever you sip warms the back of your palate.
Friday Evening Scotch Ponderings
1) Without googling it, what’s the difference between a cyclone and a hurricane?
2) Write a list of five sexy beasts who “make your pants wanna get up and dance”.
3) Why so some men dominate your time without any action? Yes, that’s right gentlemen, women need a little hoochie-coochie to keep them interested too. You only get a short probationary period to let us sample your skills, after that, it’s just a matter of deleting you from our iPhones. We have enough friends, what us single gals are after are highly skilled lovers.
4) If it weren’t for your intolerance of loud snoring and flatulence, would you be co-habitating by now?
5) Is there anything worse than a man who does not know the proper fellatio technique? Seriously, it’s irritating enough to cause fantasies of giving his melon a double knee crunch just to get him to stop.
6) Why are laid back men so damned hot? (I’ll help you with this one, “Because you can just saddle them up and they’ll do anything.”)
7) Why do our eyes lie to our hearts? For example, every shirtless fireman with a six-pack makes us glisten just a little bit in our girly bits, but when it comes to the nitty-gritty, the reality is, we’d rather have a hippie with a bit of a beer belly between the sheets, or a cuddly bald guy. Wait. Don’t answer that. We already know the answer….
8) If you don’t know the answer, you need a little more truth serum in your glass my cute little pumpkin pie. Just go back and refer to #6.
9) Who the hell thought to bake pumpkin guts in a pie shell anyway?
10) Same goes for stuffing bread, dried fruit and sausage up dead bird’s you-know-what.
With that, I wish you a happy, thoughtful, slightly inebriated start to our long, Canadian Thanksgiving weekend.
“Well, surprise surprise. There he is waiting for me, looking just a nervous as he did in tenth grade. David Callaghan. His strong hands are wrapped around his warm cup of coffee, and I know that he doesn’t know I’m there watching him. Maybe it’s not too late after all.”
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